


Caesar Dusted

by narramin



Series: Promtober 2019 [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Caesar Dust - Freeform, F/M, Hell is empty all the hell is here, I broke in this tag which while doubious definitely not an honor, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-22 03:25:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20867414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narramin/pseuds/narramin
Summary: "Law briefly wondered if he’d really done a line off one of his horns. He also wondered if it was possible to willingly disintegrate."---Also known as, I've gone and done it lads.





	Caesar Dusted

**Author's Note:**

> This is for that about ten people who know who they are, and with whom we memed ourselves into this concept, rightly, justly, truthfully, but very very unfortunately. 
> 
> Thanks for @Smartie-ya for correcting such inconsequential things as everyone's actual given name in this, which I apparently didn't know. Liz's spotless, brilliant mind came up with the actual name Caesar Dust, for which we're forever grateful.
> 
> Inktober 2019, day 2 - Mindless. Also known as: "You Think Your Walks Of Shame Have Been Bad? Think Again".

Law was, in retrospect, glad that he’d woken with a piercing headache.

It had immediately alerted him that something was wrong. Dread hadn’t come swift and unexpected, like a mean oil spill on the Polar Tang, not reflecting the dull red nightlights; with that, you didn’t know something was wrong until you had already slipped and banged your head into the corridor wall in plain view of Shachi who’d laughed so hard he’d almost passed out, wheezing.

No, he’d woken slow and utterly miserable with what had felt like _ at least _ a hangover, going by the nausea and the dryness in his mouth. He felt strangely hot and cold at the same time, limbs stiff and aching. He didn’t like this at all. He tried to push down unpleasant flashes of images and thoughts he felt circling his consciousness. Law was great at ignoring unpleasant thoughts; denial had always played a key role in his life.

It did work, right until a feather tickled his nose.

There was no fucking ignoring this anymore. Not if he was right.

At the tickle, as the memories of his previous night hit him, the only thing that stopped Law from shooting right up, probably through the cement ceiling, possibly through the reinforced roof, and if he was lucky right into outer space where he’d punch it for good, was something deep and primal in him, locking his muscles; _ play dead and you’ll live _, it said.

Frozen, muscles taut almost to the point of snapping, Law slowly cracked his eyes open, against the cold dawn light, immediately worsening his headache. He fought off another wave of dread and nausea. He hoped he wouldn’t see what his memories of sloppy kisses, of feathers and tendrils of smoke and gas_ suggested _ he would, what the soreness of his body _ knew _he would.

But, if Trafalgar D. Water Law had ever been lucky in his life, he wouldn’t be a pirate, he wouldn’t be on a stark, simultaneously freezing and boiling shit of a rock without his crew, his family wouldn’t be dead and he definitely wouldn't be in bed with Dr. Monet and Caesar Clown.

So, he forced himself to try and latch onto the well-known, practiced, detached numbness that had been his companion for years now, when he recognised a soft, curved, pale back almost pressed to his nose; a wing of pale green feathers partially covering her and tickling Law’s nose every time she exhaled. 

Someone else snored hoarsely behind him, against the wall, and he didn’t- he wasn’t- he’d fucking kill him, or himself, at the earliest convenience today. 

He had gotten high on _ whoever the fuck knows what _, and slept with Dr. Monet and Caesar fucking Clown. The mental image alone was almost mind-numbing. 

A minute passed. Law took a deep breath. Then another one, for good measure. He sat up, stiff, slow, as his spinning and throbbing head and nausea let him, sliding the blanket off, leaving himself naked, dizzy, and very careful not to look anywhere but the opposite wall. It was a room he’d only seen once before, when they had exchanged hearts; large, unfriendly, bare grey concrete, and dwarfing a simple closet and the big bed pushed against a wall. 

Now, the floor was littered with clothing, but the mess of colors only managed to make the rest of the space look even less inviting. 

He scooted, numb, to the end of the bed, his only way out, unless he was to climb over Monet - not an option. He did not want to stay here for another second. He didn’t know if he could get up and not stumble. In spite of himself, he turned his head back, crink in his neck; Monet still asleep, feathers and hair spreading all over the bed. Caesar was almost wedged between the bed and the wall, mostly covered by a thin sheet; a small mercy, as far as Law was concerned. He’d seen enough of him last night, in the mindless haze of unknown drugs - _ Caesar Dust _, a corner of his mind provided, unhelpfully - and sex. 

He briefly wondered if he’d really done a line off one of his horns. He also wondered if it was possible to willingly disintegrate. 

He put his feet down, and the concrete was so, shockingly, numbingly cold, that it almost made him gasp, chilled him right to the bone. His head was spinning, he was shivering and about to throw up and he’d just done what was possibly the dumbest, most mindless shit in his entire goddamn life. _ Congratulations, Trafalgar_, he thought, suddenly, viciously angry at himself, and forced himself to put his weight on his feet, ignoring the spinning room. 

It was close, but he didn’t fall - the possibility of waking Monet and the Clown up by falling back to the bed, ass first, gracelessly was more appalling than trying to unbend his chilly, aching joints. 

He still wasn’t sure if he wouldn't throw up, or possibly die of dehydration or shame before he could leave this room. He hoped they were cold too. 

His pants were in the mess on the floor, too far away. He moved towards them, gritting his teeth at the premise of putting them back on, but knowing better than to trust his ability to Shamble himself back to his room without accidentally landing himself in a wall and doing himself in by a stupid mistake. 

In his teens Law’d had his days of trying to use Room while drunk, high, or both, and those were one of the few lessons in his life that he’d never question or forget. The sight of his own elbow crushed into what’d looked strawberry jam and the pain that followed, had stuck with him for good, once he was back to his senses. A warning bright as his own blood. 

So now there he was, trying to drag his stiff, sticky pants on, pathetic, cursing under his breath, stumbling on a floor so cold he briefly wondered what he’d do if he´d actually stick to it. As he turned to pick up the rest of his clothes he saw a small movement in the corner of his eye, and he froze, thinking someone else was in the room. 

It was only a mirror, on the wall, so far covered by the half-open closet door. The man looking back at Law had bruises hanging beneath his eyes, hollows beneath his cheekbones. His face was fish-white, and even from this distance he could see the burst red blood vessels in his eyes, like nasty little crime scenes. There was darker, duller blood under his nose too, that he didn’t wipe, but zipped his fly up instead, a slight tremor in his hands.

Law turned his back to him.

He picked up his shirt, his coat and his hat, a bundle under his arm. Decided against putting on his shoes, heels undoubtedly loud and unforgiving in the silence of the base; he wasn't sure he could balance putting them on without sitting anyway. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t stay in this room for another second, even if it had meant to leave and possibly run into a guard or two in a state of undress that left nothing to speculation. 

Punk Hazard didn’t have many perks, but the ease with which one could get rid of a dead body it was one of the few. He’d killed people for less. The objective ugliness of this was almost exhilarating. 

Fingers barely bending, he reached for Kikouku, miraculously, neatly propped against the wall, out of place in the chaos - a wonder, given the state they had been in by the time they reached this room, and an uncomfortable clue that maybe, maybe, he hadn’t been completely out of his mind the night before. Not to the level that justified everything else anyway. His fingers brushed her but were too stiff to grab, so, in what seemed like slow motion, she fell in a large arc against the closet door, with a loud _ BANG _echoing in the quiet of the room.

Law closed his eyes. Breathed in, twice, slow. Opened them back up, head turned towards the bed. 

No movement, no signs of waking. Monet’s eyelids seemed to have fluttered the slightest, but her breaths were a steady, sleeping rhythm. He had a plain view of her breasts, now that he was standing between the bed and the door. He looked away. He bent down with a hiss and picked up Kikoku for good, instead. 

He shuffled to the door, careful to open it quietly. He looked back, one last time, to the mess of pills and clothes on the floor, to the sleeping figures in the bed. 

Monet, he decided, would be a pain in the ass about it, flirty and hinting at it whenever she could. Caesar was a loud, disgusting idiot, but busy worshipping himself so much he probably didn’t realise that fucking him was the kind of pitch dark blackmail material that Law’s enemies would kill for. He had probably thought he was doing him a favour. 

The incredibility of that thought was almost as dazing as the drugs themselves. 

The air in corridor outside was, impossibly, even chillier than in the room, but it was too late to put his coat on now, he thought. Wouldn’t matter anyway, if he decided to drink himself into liver failure later that day, which he was seriously considering. His crew would understand.

A part of his mind, the ever calculating one, blinked back online; it wondered if this _ escapade _ might increase the positive outcome of the plan that had brought him to this island, if nothing else. 

Trafalgar Law decided, that, for once, he didn’t fucking care. 

**Author's Note:**

> If this was a running event this is where bottled water would be offered to the survivors when reaching finish line, but after this only a bullet to the head would be sufficient. Happy Inktober 2019.


End file.
